


Build Them Up (And Tear Them Down)

by Yuliares



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: The Leverage team mashed up with Sentinels, Guides... and whatever the hell Nate is.Eliot is all control, all the time, power pulled tight around him like a shield. Connecting with him the first time was like a regulation perfect handshake, but these days… he can feel the thrum of Eliot beneath it, warm and steady.Parker is a short-range laser cannon - point and obliterate. She’s electric sparks and cold metal and pop rocks under your tongue, all at once, over a wifi connection that keeps dropping.Hardison sometimes wonders if there’s a wire loose in him somewhere, because he’s pretty sure the whiplash from swapping between them should scramble his brains - and it’s hard, that’s for sure.But it also feels right.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer, Sophie Devereaux/Nathan Ford
Comments: 8
Kudos: 119





	Build Them Up (And Tear Them Down)

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was a bee in my bonnet that I had to get out. No plot here, just a rehashing of the classic team through a slightly different lens.

The headache creeps up on him throughout the day, growing and growling like the dull roar of a crowd in his head. Nana finds him hunched over in his room when he doesn't show up with the other kids for dinner. 

"What's wrong?" she asks, and he leans into her wrinkled hands, cool on his hot forehead. 

"I don't know," he cries. "It feels like my head's gonna burst, and I'm just - sad, and happy, and - and angry!"

"Angry?"

There's a sudden slam of a door from the hallway.

"I know you stole my necklace, Vanessa!" screams Jaz.

Nana's eyes soften as Alec flinches. "Are you mad at Vanessa?" she asks softly.

"Yes," he whispers, confused.

"Oh Alec," she says. "You're a guide." Her fingers tap against his forehead. "May I?"

"Please," he says, and it feels like she pulls a curtain between him and the clambor.

Alec knows Nana didn't rat him out, but the other kids still call him a snitch when Vanessa is caught, and that hurts. Hurts more than the torrent emotions that roll off them in waves, sharp and raw and confusing.

He'd liked machines before, but now he loves them - they leave his head blissfully quiet. He spends days on end alone in his room with a computer and the internet, even after Nana teaches him how to make a basic shield to keep the adolescent flood of _feelings_ and _emotions_ from the other kids at bay. 

But Nana doesn't let him hide forever, so he learns how to hack vending machines and bribes his way back in. 

His nickname goes from _snitch_ to _snack king_ overnight - they even give him a crown. It's flimsy and so thin that it barely qualifies as cardboard, and it's just a joke, but when they place it on his head it's like flipping on a circuit breaker inside him - all lit up like a damn Christmas tree.

So he sticks with the hacking, and never looks back.

~

She gets trapped in her first zone while sitting cross-legged on her bed, anxiously listening for the sound of her father's heavy boots. Instead she gets caught up in the rush of the water pipes, and the moan of the floorboards.

And then there's a stranger in her head, icy cold and _wrong_ , and she crashes back into her body to scramble away, drenched in sweat. Her parents pay the stranger in cash to keep quiet, and her father slaps her hard, in the face, for causing trouble. 

She can't bring herself to sleep in the bed after that. She starts sleeping in other places, like under it, or in the closet.

And, very carefully, she continues to listen - not broadly, that was a mistake - just very specifically, for a short time, to things within arm's reach. Like her alarm clock, the _tcktcktck_ of the second hand counting down to the day she leaves her childhood bedroom behind and never comes back.

Her new hidey-holes are perfectly sized for one, because the only person you can depend on is yourself.

She learns to _look_ and _feel_ and _taste_ as well, though she mostly ignores that last one. She buries her mind behind thick layers of steel and iron so no one can reach her, finds a teacher who's just as happy as she is to keep their distance, and then -

And then she takes The Job, and everything changes.

~

One of the best (and most famous) schools for Sensitives is The Tower. It's the tallest building in London, lit by colored lights that represent the ranking system they devised and is now used across Europe, and famous for their rigorous training. Graduates from The Tower are highly sought after - even graduates with modest talents are guaranteed good employment opportunities, while powerful sensitives are placed into important job positions in the government or other high-end industries.

Some graduates, if they're lucky, even manage to pay off their debt.

~

Hardison gives the group a cursory scan, part of his SOP when working with a new team. 

The insurance man gently radiates smug amusement, which is irritating, but to be expected. The blonde chick is bricked up tighter than a nuclear containment zone, and doesn't even seem to notice him checking, and the grumpy guy with the ponytail gives a standard little blip of acknowledgement as their shields bump.

"You're a guide?" he asks.

"Nah, man," laughs Hardison. "I'm a geek. It's much better, I promise."

~

“Knew you could do it,” says Nate, slapping Hardison on the back.

“You did not!” sputters Hardison, eyes wild and voice high. “ _I_ didn’t know I could do that.”

“And now you do,” says Nate blandly, hopping out of the van with a smug little smile.

“ _Hate_ when he does that,” says Hardison, trembling hands worrying at the cuffs of his sleeves, as if that will calm them.

“He’s being creepy,” agrees Parker, as she sidles up to Hardison's side, Eliot striding up a few seconds after her.

"Cut it real close on that one," he says, bumping Hardison's shoulder. "Thanks for the assist. Didn't expect to find you knocking in my head."

"Trust me," says Hardison grimly. "Neither was I."

“You know, some of the guys I’ve worked with have this theory,” Eliot says, as the three of them watch Nate turn the corner and out of sight. Probably off to rendezvous with Sophie… or find a drink. “Folks like Nate, they’re not common, but… you run into them in government and spec ops. Not Sentinels, not Guides, but they got this knack for reading people. They look at you, and it’s like they’re measuring somethin’ you can’t see."

Parker crosses her arms. “Is it true?”

Eliot shrugs. “Does it matter? You learn what to expect.”

Hardison shakes his head. “You’re saying there’s more folks like him? Damn.” He pauses. “...you got a name for ‘em?”

“Well, Nate’s different,” Eliot pauses. “He gets involved, you know? But the others, they just… watch, send somebody else to get their hands dirty. So we call ‘em Observers.”

“Well I think he’s just a jerk,” insists Parker, which makes Eliot bark a laugh, and puts a wobbly smile on Hardison's face.

~

The team is still on edge when Nate gathers them around the table, tension making the room seem small.

“Did you know,” says Nate, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell if it’s actually a question or one of his rhetorical lectures. He looks around the table at each of them. “Did you know that every con I plan could be run by a group of non-sensitives?”

Hardison makes an offended sound. “Then what the _fuck_ was-”

“And when something goes wrong,” Nate continues, standing to speak over him, “I choose the most efficient solution. If you weren’t a Guide I was confident could pull it off, we would have done things differently."

Hardison gapes at him in outrage. “So you’re saying… we had _other options_!?”

“And we went with the _best one_.” Nate stabs the table with a finger. “Because I _always_ choose the best option. That’s my _job_.”

“And my job is to jump when you say so,” snaps Hardison grumpily. Parker, beside him, is frowning. “Got it.”

“Your job is to _trust_ me,” says Nate. “All of you.”

Eliot crosses his arms. “A job is a job. I’ve done loads of ‘em without trusting anybody.”

“And _none_ of them,” Nate shouts, making Sophie jump, “Could do what we do. _None_ of them.”

Sophie sighs, crossing and recrossing her arms.

“You don’t have to like me," says Nate, gentling his voice. "But if you want to keep doing what we do, then you do need to trust me. And if you can’t, that’s fine. But you need to walk out that door, right now, because this _will not work_.”

There’s a long, silent pause.

Nobody moves.

“Right,” says Nate, and slouches back into his chair. “We’ve got a new lead - take it away, Hardison.”

~

Nate sits down opposite Sophie at the bar, a wine glass already filled and waiting for him.

"Was I too hard on them?" he asks, pulling the chair out and tugging the glass closer. 

"Harsh, but effective," Sophie says. "They're young, Nate. Don't break them."

Nate laughs, swirling the wine and giving it an appreciative sniff before taking a sip. "And ruin the best crew I've ever had? Not a chance."

"Things got a little dicey out there," she says carefully. "With our last job."

“The other crew had a solid plan,” Nate admits gruffly, after a pause. “And they got in before we did. We’d have been in trouble if their guide hadn’t bungled the sell.”

“Tried to push too hard,” Sophie says, tilting her head to better admire the wine in her glass. “Common mistake. It’s hard not to overcompensate if you’re not really, really good.”

Nate leans forward on his elbow, dropping his voice. “ _You_ are really, really good.”

Sophie drops her eyes for a modest moment, before glancing up at him through her long, dark eyelashes. “Feels like cheating, sometimes,” she whispers, smiling slightly.

"Cheers to a challenge," he says, raising his wine, and he knows he's at least got her in his corner, despite everything, when she gives him that smirk before clinking their glasses together.

~

“Teach me,” Parker demands, throwing herself onto the stool next to Eliot.

“Teach you what?”

“You’ve worked with guides before. Show me how.”

Eliot stares at her a moment before his face softens. “You want to work with Hardison?”

Parker frowns and shifts her weight from one side to the other. “I just want to be able to, that's all. Is it hard?”

Eliot turns to face her fully, swivelling on the stool. “It depends a lot on the guide, and how you feel about them.”

Parker shudders. “I don’t want anyone in my head.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that, like in the movies. It can be more like,” Eliot pauses, thinking. “Like Hardison over the ear piece. Giving you extra bits of information. Would you like that?”

Parker considers for a moment, before she nods silently.

“Okay,” says Eliot. “You ever study martial arts?” 

“No,” says Parker. “But I know how to punch someone.”

Eliot chuckles softly, before pushing up from his stool, beckoning her over. “That you do. Okay, fighting stance.”

Parker softens her knees and puts her fists up.

“When you’re fighting,” he says, moving into position opposite her, arms bent at the elbow, hands open and ready. “You’re just protecting yourself, yeah? If someone throws a punch at you, you block it.” He pantomimes moving forward, fist slowly twisting out for her to sidestep.

“But if I throw a punch here,” he says, moving his arm far to the right of her, “There’s no need to block. It’s not gonna hit you anyways, and trying to block it is just gonna to throw you off balance and tire you out.”

Parker nods. “Like disabling alarms. You only hit the ones in your path.”

“Exactly. It’s about efficiency.” Eliot taps his head. “It’s the same thing up here. You gotta figure out your safe zone, mentally. Imagine your shields like a sphere - let it grow a little, then shrink it down a little. It’s like finding a radio frequency - there should be a sweet spot, a space that just feels right.”

He moves back into a fighting stance, demonstrating with exaggerated moves. “Again, it’s just like punching - you keep it too tight, you’re not protecting everything and you're vulnerable. You lean too far, you go off balance, you get weak. Same concepts, just in your head.”

Parker closes her eyes, and tries to visualize the shields she keeps tightly locked around her, layer upon layer of metal plates pushed from the center outward. “I don’t know how far out my shields go,” she says, frowning.

“Then your first step is finding out,” Eliot says practically.

Parker frowns harder, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to feel outward. It's like reaching into a void. “I can’t,” she finally says, frustrated.

“Here,” says Eliot. “Try tapping yours against mine.”

Parker’s eyes fly open. “What?”

“My shield and your shield,” he says mildly. “You’ll feel it if they make contact, yeah? Then you’ll know.”

“But won’t that trigger your defences?”

“No,” says Eliot, offering her his palm. “Sweet spot, remember? You won’t get inside it.”

She looks at his hand skeptically.

“We don’t have to,” he says, “But casual connections can help. Something about already having physical contact - makes it less abrupt, mentally.”

She gently rests the tips of her fingers on his calloused hand, and closes her eyes. She imagines nudging her mind slowly towards his, leaning farther and farther, when - she feels a slight impression, as if from a great distance. She immediately tries to shove it away, mentally and physically.

“Woah there,” says Eliot. She darts a glance at his face - but he doesn’t look upset, or disappointed. “You felt it, then?”

“A bit,” she hedges.

“Wanna try again?” he says, and she closes her eyes. It helps, now that she sort of knows how far to lean - this time she only jumps a little, listening like when she’s got her ear pressed against the tumbler of a safe, keeping her eyes squeezed shut. There’s the rough hint of an edge, and she traces it, draws it out along it’s curve. “I think I found it,” she says, excitement bleeding into her voice.

She opens her eyes to see Eliot staring at her, smiling softly.

Proud. He looks proud.

“Try flexing it,” he says. 

It’s weird, like grappling against something that’s too smooth, but there’s _something_ \- 

“From the center out,” says Eliot’s voice. “Expand when you breathe out. Contract when you breathe in.”

Parker breathes.

In.

And out.

~

“Good,” says Eliot’s voice, and Parker blinks, coming back to herself, her fingertips still resting on Eliot’s palm.

“Punching things seems easier,” she says, pulling her hand back.

“Only because you’ve had more practice,” Eliot says. “Find your sweet spot and practise holding it. Get familiar with it. Eventually, you want to be able to return to it without thinking.”

“Like a muscle memory.”

“Yes,” says Eliot, approvingly. “Once you know your boundaries, everything becomes clearer. Inside the line, you react. Everything outside of it, you just observe.”

~

“I don’t like it,” whispers Parker, shoulders tense.

“It’s okay to feel that way,” says Sophie gently, cradling each hand loosely in hers, palms up. Sophie’s hands are warm and soft. “Let’s try again - deep breathe, relax. I’m going to reach out and brush against your shields again - you don’t have to do anything, just be aware of it.”

“Right,” says Parker, worrying her lip.

“This is just a hello,” says Sophie. “It’s not establishing any sort of connection. It’s not an attack. Just enough for you to sense me. Can you feel it?”

“Yes,” says Parker shortly, hands clenching. It’s… _weird_ , like a warm gust of wind, but in her head. It’s hard not to throw more barriers up, force it further away.

_Find your sweet spot. Everything outside of it, just observe-_

“Good, that’s better,” Sophie soothes. “You didn’t pull away that time.”

Parker sighs, frustrated. “But this isn’t _useful_.”

“It is,” corrects Sophie. “Every connection you choose to make builds from this moment.”

Parker’s shoulders crunch together, one leg swinging free to kick the legs of the stool. “I’m not good at connections.” She frowns. “...what if I can’t?”

“You can,” says Sophie firmly. “If you can fight a connection, you can build a connection. They’re just opposite sides of the same coin. And you,” she adds, “Are definitely a fighter. Right?”

“Yeah,” says Parker, chin rising. “I am.”

~

"Okay," says Nate's voice in their ear, crisp over the light murmur of party guests. Parker weaves through the crowd with a tray of champagne flutes, while a well-suited Eliot critically eyes the _hor de vour_ options through his glasses. "We need to get our mark alone, just for a few minutes."

"She won't leave his side unless he tells her to," Sophie mutters, eyeing the couple from across the gala. The woman, glittering in a golden evening gown, smiles blandly from where she trails off her husband's elbow. Sophie hasn't seen her say a word all night.

"So we'll give him a reason," says Nate. "How attached is he to her?"

"Evening coat," she says. "He won't be upset to set her aside temporarily, but he'll notice if she's gone for too long."

"Got it. Eliot, you've got a trade deal you'd love to talk to him about, but really need to grab a drink first. Parker, I need you within eyesight but out of reach. We want him to send his wife to fetch drinks."

"On my way."

"That's what I was supposed to be," Sophie says suddenly, as they move into position. "Always close by, so I'd be there if my husband or Sentinel needed me. Like a bloody handbag. No one even considered that I might want to be the star."

"Stay focused," warns Nate. "If this goes well, you can be the handbag that bites his hand off tomorrow."

~

"I can't thank you enough. Merry Christmas," says their latest client, ducking his head before walking away.

"Merry Christmas!" Sophie calls after him.

"Well, that's at least one person with holiday spirit," says Hardison. 

"And I think it's really sad that we're all so cynical about the holidays," says Sophie. "I loved Christmas as a child."

"Yeah, well, nothing's genuine anymore," mutters Eliot.

"That's not true, no! Look, I've been thinking about this. You know what is genuine?" Sophie asks, looking each of them in the eye. "Trust."

"Trust?" says Parker.

Nate huffs a laugh.

"Seriously! I think we should give each other some trust for Christmas."

"What, like that exercise where you fall back and someone catches you?" asks Parker.

"No, not like that," says Sophie quickly, shaking her head.

"Good, because I dropped the person, and they had to get stitches."

"Still hurts," says Eliot.

"I know," says Parker, squeezing her eyes shut.

"I just think we've been through so much together, and we should give each other something really personal this year. Like a story or - or a secret," says Sophie. "Come on, bear with me please," she adds, as the rest of them lean away. "Who's going to go first?"

Eliot checks his watch, grimacing, while Parker eyes the bowl of candy. She could probably fit the whole thing in her mouth, which would mean she couldn't talk-

"Fine," says Nate, and they all look to him in surprise.

"When I was a kid," he begins, "I wanted a trumpet for Christmas. My father played records all the time, and there was this one trumpet player who was just… amazing. I wanted to sound just like him, you know?" Nate sighs, fidgeting with the cup in his hand. "Christmas rolls around, and no trumpet, of course. Just a pack of baseball cards. Anyways, a couple of days later, I wake up - and at the foot of the bed is a trumpet. It's tarnished, and dinged up, and stolen for sure… but there it is. I uh, played it every day for 10 years."

Nate nudges his glass, clears his throat. "So I gave it to Sam. On his 8th birthday. He… went into the hospital the day he was supposed to have his first lesson." He swallows, hard. "I didn't keep anything from my childhood. But I did keep the trumpet. Still have it, in fact."

They all watch as he drains his cup, the now-empty glass thunking back onto the table.

“Okay. Who’s next?” Nate looks around the table, ignoring the wet eyes. “Hardison?”

Hardison spreads his hands. “Damn, man. Uh, what do you wanna know?”

“Did you train in the Tower?” asks Parker, leaning forward.

“The Tower?” Hardison laughs shortly. “Nah,” he says. “That’s for rich city kids. My neighborhood had an after-school club, and my Nan taught me the rest. Ain’t nobody I knew grew up thinking they could do the Guide gig full-time.” He grins. “I’m glad. There’s no way they would have let me play with the fun stuff if I went up there.”

“I met a Tower guide once,” Parkers says abruptly. “Said it wasn’t safe to be a girl alone on the streets. Wanted me to go with him.”

“Tower guides are encouraged to recruit strong candidates,” says Eliot, but Parker shakes her head.

“He wanted me to live in his apartment. He said I needed him.” 

Eliot’s grip on the beer bottle clenches, hard. “What happened?”

“He was wrong. I didn’t need him - he just wanted me to, because then I’d have to stay.” She shrugs, as if oblivious to the sudden tension in the room. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead, and I was fine on my own. Still am. But… it's nice. That I don't have to be.” She turns to Sophie. “What about you? Did you get Tower training?”

There’s a slight pause.

“Nonsense,” Sophie says archly. “I had a private tutor.”

Hardison whistles. “Fan-cy.”

“She was good, I’ll admit,” says Sophie with a flip of her wrist. “But she lacked imagination. Everyone did. Sometimes I feel guilty - I had everything, and I _hated_ it…” She trails off for a moment, eyes distant, before blinking, brightening. “So I left! And I refuse to feel bad about it, because here I am, sharing my holidays with the most talented team this city has ever seen.”

“Hear hear!” calls Hardison, and they all lift their glasses and drink.

“Eliot?” says Sophie.

“I trained at the Tower for two years,” says Eliot grimly. “Learned a bunch of crap before I got pulled into the Service. Where they taught me different crap.” He scowls at his drink. “I’m glad none of you went there.”

“I’ve been there,” says Nate. “Briefly.”

“Yeah?”

“Took a… temporary gig. I wanted to see for myself, what it was like. In case… in case my son qualified.”

“And? What did you decide?”

Nate pushes back from the table. “Best to steer the hell clear of it.”

~

Eliot is all control, all the time, power pulled tight around him like a shield. Connecting with him the first time was like a regulation perfect handshake, but these days… he can feel the thrum of _Eliot_ beneath it, warm and steady.

Parker is a short-range laser cannon - point and obliterate. She’s electric sparks and cold metal and pop rocks under your tongue, all at once, over a wifi connection that keeps dropping.

Hardison sometimes wonders if there’s a wire loose in him somewhere, because he’s pretty sure the whiplash from swapping between them should scramble his brains - and it’s _hard_ , that’s for sure.

But it also feels _right_.

~

“They’re bonding,” Sophie says, surprised.

“Hardison and Parker?” asks Nate. “Good for them.”

“No,” breathes Sophie. “Eliot too.”

This gets Nate to look up in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s… very light, very early, of course,” Sophie says, “But it’s definitely all three of them.”

Nate frowns slightly. “Is that even possible?”

Sophie just hums, eyes bright.

"You can't make them your pet project," Nate warns.

"I would never," says Sophie, picture-perfect offense from her scandalized tone to the hand that rises to her chest.

"I'm serious."

"Hmph," says Sophie, and drops the pose. "So am I - I don’t mess with bonds. Those have to come naturally.” she says, seriously, and for a moment their eyes meet.

They both look away, neither willing to mention the half-formed connection between them.

“But,” Sophie says lightly, pulling the focus back to something safe. “That doesn't mean I can't keep my eye on them."

~

“I’ve got you,” Hardison says, holding out his palms. Behind him, Eliot leans up against the wall, arms tucked across his chest.

Parker nods, heart pounding. This is what they’ve been working towards. Months of meditating with Eliot, Sophie brushing against the edges of her shields. Learning to recognize each of them in her mind. Learning to reach out - the quicksilver flash of surprise and delight the first time she brushed minds with Hardison. They regularly check in on jobs now, a tenuous connection that they continue to strengthen, zips of information and gentle nudges - but a sustained connection?

Actually letting someone _in?_

She wasn't sure that was something she'd ever want.

“You sure?” Hardison asks, brows knitting. “We don’t have to do this, or we can keep practicing-”

She puts her hand in his, steady and sure.

“I want to,” she says.

“Okay,” he says, immediately accepting her decision. “Just one sense, remember.”

"One sense," she repeats, closing her eyes.

“Deep breath,” he whispers, and she latches onto his voice, focusing on its familiar sound as her own chest rises and falls, letting her heartbeat fade away in favor of his.

She can feel him reaching out to her, a familiar presence, and she forces herself to relax, shoulders sinking back. She finds the edges of her shield, and eases it open a sliver, inviting Hardison to join her - to hear what _she_ hears.

Then… she considers the small, slivered opening, thinks _it’s Hardison_ , and then throws the door wide open.

“Woah,” gasps Hardison, loud to her ears, but he rushes forward to catch her, and it’s _weird_ , like having two minds at once, tangled up together. She can feel his affection for her, sincerity and admiration and alarm. She senses him looking around, stretching, feeling out her senses.

 _Damn, girl_ , he thinks. _You got a turbo engine in here_.

She’d expected the connection to feel constraining - but as she flexes, she finds she’s still limber - Hardison a reassuring presence, like her favorite zipline harness.

So she focuses, and listens harder, thinking _this is nothing - let me show you_.

The heartbeat doubles in her ears, the steady thump of each chamber echoing loudly. His sharp inhale is a rush of air filling and stretching his creaking lungs, and she can hear the soft drag of his lip as he gently bites into it. And now, oh - the roar of a river, pulsing to the beat of his heart.

And through it all, the grounding presence of Hardison, a zipline back to her core, keeping her from getting lost entirely in the thunderous cacophony of bodily sounds. 

_Wow_ , they both think, for entirely different reasons, and she feels amusement color their connection.

 _C'mon back,_ thinks Hardison, and it's so _easy_ , zipping back into her skin, the feeling of touch and smell rushing back as everything quiets. Hardison's hand is still steady beneath hers.

She opens her eyes, grinning.

“Ugh,” says Hardison, wincing. “Nothing like hearing your own stomach acid bubbling. Can we choose something different to focus on, next time?”

“I thought you sounded very nice,” says Parker, patting his hand. "Eliot! Eliot, we did it!"

"Knew you could," says Eliot, stepping forward to clap both their shoulders.

"What a rush," says Hardison. "Whew. What happened to doing things slowly, girl? I know you like jumping off buildings, but we gotta make sure you feel safe."

Parker shrugs, still grinning. "Of course I was safe," she says. "It's _you_."


End file.
